Vellum and Morocco

Chapter 1

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

-Winston Churchill

Sherlock Holmes snaked his way through the seemingly endless rows of luggage and suitcases, all being somewhat moderated by their owners. There were many instances in which his own bag was knocked to the floor by an ignorant passenger, causing both participants to glare at each other. After much careful maneuvering, he found his designated seat, and John Watson followed him.

"You would think—" John tried to speak, but lost his balance as he tried to store their bags in the upper compartment, "You would think, that after all of this, your brother would have gotten us a better…" he motioned to the rest of the cramped plane, "…arrangement."

"I agree that this is utterly proletarian, but it was last-minute."

"First class would have been nice."

"He's punishing us—well, me."

"I think he's just happy that you agreed to all of this."

"The fact that this was a nine was the only reason I did."

John sighed. "Eight hours on a plane," he drawled.

"And we land in America—hardly any consolation."

Sherlock thought back to the day before, when Mycroft told him about the case in America. It had been nearly a week after Sherlock came back from the dead, but that didn't stop Mycroft. He called him in the morning after he texted his brother. Sherlock entered his office with obvious irritation.

"I've only been back for one week, and here you expect me to take on a case, just like that?"

"Oh, stop. I know that after a week of twiddling your thumbs—"

"And in America, of all places…you think that that's going to incline me to go?"

"Don't be so hasty. Why don't you listen to what I have to say?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. He wasn't in the mood to argue, so he sat in a chair opposite of Mycroft with no intention of listening.

"As you know, I have connections all over the world," he began. Sherlock scoffed.

Ignoring him, Mycroft continued, "You don't keep up with world news, do you?"

"I try to avoid it."

"Sacramento, California…heard of it?"

"Sounds familiar. Mycroft, really, I don't care."

"The city has seen a recent increase in homicides. The police are nearly positive that it's a serial killer."

Sherlock perked up, but immediately turned his head, trying to appear indifferent.

"Sacramento is the capital of California, and the governor, Walter Hale, has asked for your assistance."

"What?"

"One of his dear friends was a victim of these crimes, and he wants to apprehend whoever is responsible."

Sherlock pondered this. "Why me?"

Mycroft laughed, "Your indifference is amusing, Sherlock, but you must have noticed a change in the way the media treats you...and the public, at that. America has gotten word of the brilliant detective who faked his own suicide here in London. News spreads quickly."

"So, the governor wants me to take the case…tell him I'm flattered, but I'm busy," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Do you realize how important this is?" Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, "The governor of California is asking for your help. You really shouldn't be hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating…I'm refusing."

"Is this because you don't want to go to America?"

Sherlock paused, studying his brother's incredulity, "I will admit, it's not much motivation."

Just then, the door behind them opened, and John entered. After closing it behind him, he looked at the scene, his brow furrowed.

"I got here as fast I could," he sounded out of breath.

"There was no need to rush, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said casually.

John walked forward and stood behind Sherlock, "Sherlock—he said there was an emergency…"

"Yes. My brother is shipping me off to America."

John grinned slightly, "What, really?"

"I've offered Sherlock a case in California—a serial killer—but he has refused," Mycroft said, still looking at Sherlock. "I'm assuming you asked John to come to convince me that you can't go."

"A trip to America?" John mused. "I'm in."

"What?" Sherlock turned to face him. "Why?"

"Sounds like fun. Beside the fact that…you know," he coughed, "…people have…died…"

"Don't encourage Mycroft, John," Sherlock said, "I'm not going."

"Would you like some incentive?"

"I don't need it, no."

Mycroft pulled out a few files from his desk drawer and read them aloud.

"First victim, Ronald Griffin, 54, was killed one week ago. His body was found on the railroad tracks…stabbed 12 times."

Sherlock nodded, "Are you trying to make this sound intriguing?"

"Second victim, Freda Cain, 79, was killed a few days ago. Found in her home with a horrendous wound in the back of the head."

John cringed.

"Third victim—"

"How do they even know that these are serial killings?"

"Third victim," Mycroft continued, ignoring him, "Allan Carr, 46. Found on the shore of the Sacramento River. Drowned…witnesses say that he was fishing."

"Mycroft…how do they know what these are?"

His brother looked up from the papers. He then pulled out another stack of paper from his drawer and handed them to Sherlock. "These were found at each crime scene."

Sherlock scanned the photos quickly and handed them to John. "Coincidence."

John rifled through the photos, "Sherlock, these don't look—"

"Coincidence," he demanded.

"These were at three different scenes. They are, without a doubt, connected."

Sherlock peered at the photos again. Each photo was of the victim's hand, clutching a piece of paper.

"What was on the paper?"

"All of them were different. The man on the railroad's said '42'. The old woman's said '77'. The man in the river's said '565'. They're not sure how the numbers are connected."

Sherlock nodded. He had to admit that it was strange. "Even if it's a serial killer, the MOs don't match."

"And here's, perhaps, the strangest part. Everyone who found the bodies noted that they remembered the distinct smell of leather at each scene. 'Dusty and old', some said. I should also note that all of the bodies were found not long after they were killed…any ideas?"

"Three."

"Then what do say?"

Sherlock sighed. John slapped him on the back, "Come on. America isn't that bad. And this case sounds right up your alley."

"Have you ever been to America?"

"…No."

"Then you shouldn't speak from experience."

"Have you been there?"

"…No."

"Then you shouldn't speak from experience."

After much negotiation, John and Mycroft convinced the reluctant Sherlock to take the case. They made arrangements to leave that night. Sherlock and John then went back to Baker Street to pack.

"I can't believe we're going…" Sherlock droned morosely.

"Try to be a little optimistic, will you? Maybe it'll be fun."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't hold too much hope."

John looked out the window as the London skyline disappeared behind them. They didn't know how long they would stay in California—it depended on how the case progressed. They planned on at least one week.

He saw Sherlock going over the case information that Mycroft had given him. Both of them wouldn't admit that they had no idea what was going on. Sherlock didn't have three theories. He was lucky to have one.

This will certainly be blog-worthy.